


What A Cruel Thing Is War

by Elfbert



Series: Battles [3]
Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Graphic Violence, M/M, Pre-Series, Protectiveness, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 23:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: What a cruel thing is war: to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness God has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world. - Robert E. Lee.Gil Favor will do anything for the one he loves.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stephantom for beta reading! And the WestFic crew for encouragement.

He waited.

Gil Favor had learnt young how to be still and quiet. How to fade into the background. How you could survive a whole lot, when no one noticed you were there.

Now it was his job.

Watching, waiting. Keeping Pete Nolan safe. Keeping an army safe.

 

On paper, he was the officer tasked with making sure that Pete was never tempted to desert; with making sure he carried out orders.

That was a joke.

Pete was the one at home in the army. He’d grown up with it, following his father into uniform. Spending his childhood in different garrisons and forts. Learning how it worked, and how to work it.

Gil had only just avoided following his father into the town jail. Or six feet under the ground.

Youth and his temper had been an explosive cocktail. One he’d only just survived.

But none of that mattered to the higher ranks of the army. Fate had taught Gil to read, write, take orders and give them. So he was the officer, and Pete still had a corporal’s stripes on his uniform. 

And that’s all anyone saw. That’s all they were. Ranks and uniforms.

 

Winter had crept away, the stark black and white of snow and frost making way for the first colours of spring.

The armies, like two huge beasts, had begun to wake and move from their winter-long hibernations. The great towns and cities which had sprung up to shelter the troops from the harsh freezing weather were on the march once more.

Stretching, preparing, spreading across the land. Each ready to swipe and fight and hurt the other.

So his and Pete’s job was changing, from gathering information on the size of the camps, the weaponry amassed, to sending back information on where battalions and armies were marching to, and where the new threat lay.

What didn’t change was the danger, as they got closer to the enemy than ever.

 

The rain had been falling heavily all day, making their job more difficult.

Gone were the telltale dust clouds raised by hundreds of feet on the march. And gone was the ice-hard ground for them to ride over.

They were unable to use the roads and tracks, instead having to hide and move over rough terrain, and always hope their eyes were sharper than those who looked for them.

 

As night fell, Pete would creep forward, to try to gather more information as the army they had found and followed settled for the night. Tents pitched, fires lit.

Sometimes he could get close enough to overhear orders, find out snippets of information.

And all the time, Gil stayed back, watching, waiting. Knowing that at any moment Pete could be captured, or killed. And that his own life would fall apart.

 

Pete was making his way down toward the camp now. Keeping low. Bent almost double as he skirted the small woodland, his uniform, darker in the rain, almost invisible against the undergrowth.

Gil’s eyes never stayed on one spot. Raking the area.

Until they stopped.

He squinted. The rain was falling from his hat brim, so he cast it aside.

It was movement. In the darkness of the trees.

And movement meant trouble.

His hands tensed on his rifle, cold and wet, finger automatically adjusting his ladder sight on the back of the gun. He brought it up to his face, lining up on his target.

Waiting.

He saw it again, something moving slowly, approaching the edge of the woods. Watching Pete.

Pete who was almost at the edge of the camp.

He knew he couldn’t stay where he was. A gunshot now would give Pete away as surely as anything else. He’d never have time to turn and flee.

So he stood, dropped his heavy coat off, and ran.

Low and fast, rifle in his hand, just in case.

 

The heavy rain masked the sound of his movement.

His quarry was intent on watching and following Pete. Not expecting anyone else. Not ready.

Gil was barely a few feet behind him.

He was tall. Gil could make out the uniform, the glinting buttons on the cuff.

The long musket in his hand.

He dropped his own gun. Pulled out his large pocket knife, unfolding the blade.

The man stopped, steadied his left elbow on a tree trunk. Began lifting his gun to aim at Pete’s back.

He must have heard or sensed something, though, because before he had lined up his shot he began to turn in Gil’s direction, squinting against the dark and rain.

Gil threw himself forward.

There was a slight popping feel as the knife drove in. Then it stopped, hitting something solid, and Gil felt his hand slipping off the wet handle.

He shoved his other hand into the man’s face, shoving his head backwards, stopping him shouting out.

The action pressed them close together, chest to chest.

His body weight drove the knife home, grating against bone.

Even in the darkness he could see the surprise, the fear, in the man’s eyes.

Feel hot breath and soft skin under his hand as it clamped hard over the man’s mouth.

Except it wasn’t a man.

Smooth, soft, stubble-free cheeks, wild floppy hair, thin body, little muscle on the bones. Not even filled out, still gangly and awkward.

It was a kid.

A kid whose hot blood was welling up, from chest and mouth, the warmth spreading over Gil’s fingers, soaking into his uniform.

Breath and blood bubbled out of the kid’s mouth, his jaw worked, as if trying to say something.

Gil wanted to say something himself.

Something like ‘I’m sorry’. Like ‘I didn’t want to do this’. But the words wouldn’t come.

He knew he couldn’t move, couldn’t let the kid yell out. So he just waited, and watched, teeth clenched, muscles taut, millimetres away from the terrified expression and the tears mixing with rain.

He felt the kid’s limbs go slack, the final snorting bloody mess of breath and life leaving the boy. The kid’s blood spraying out from between his fingers, into his face, as the lungs pushed out the last of the air.

Saw the eyes as they abruptly lost their focus. Wide and innocent and still wearing the look of shock.

Then he waited a little longer. To be sure. The rain washing over both of them, running down his face, dripping from his soaked hair, beginning to wash the blood from his hand where it still sat clamped over the kid’s face.

He finally moved. Pulling the knife free. Wiping it down on his own thigh automatically, his gaze never leaving the young face. Maybe seventeen, eighteen years old. Barely started a life now over.

For a moment he paused, unsure what to do. Then lay the body down, carefully. Slid eyelids closed over unseeing eyes that were unblinking in the pouring rain.

Finally he drew a cross, with his fingertip, on the rain-soaked forehead. As if that would somehow help. Then realised it was bright with smeared blood. Already being washed away.

He was pretty sure God had turned his back on every one of them a long time ago anyway.

 

He turned away, suddenly realising that he’d abandoned his duty. He hadn’t a clue where Pete had gone, or if there was anyone else who would pose a threat.

He felt his hands shaking as he took a few steps and reached for his gun again, where it lay on the soft grass, and scanned the area.

There was no movement, beyond the rain falling through the leaves, and his own shaking breaths.

He moved away, watching, observing, until he got back to his chosen place. His hat and coat were still on the ground, and he pulled on the heavy wet garment, shivering hard even though it wasn’t cold.

His eyes scanned the land. But again and again were pulled back to the large tree. Knowing that beneath it lay the body of the boy. Alone in the darkness.

He wiped wet hands on his coat. Let the pouring rain dilute and wash away some of the blood that he knew soaked the front of his uniform. But he couldn’t bring himself to look, not now.

Time seemed to stretch. He knew whilst he hadn’t been paying attention Pete could have been caught. He wasn’t even sure if he would have heard any sort of commotion. He couldn’t be sure how long he had stood, waiting for the kid to die.

Die at his hands. Die in his arms. His blade lodged deep in a kid’s chest.

It had been as if he was alone in the world. Him, and the life he was taking.

He remembered as a boy seeing a picture of the Death in a book. Long robes, a scythe, skeletal. Menacing. But he’d always known that death looked just like he did, him and millions of others. No special costume, nothing to make you stand out. Death was ordinary, and everywhere.

He wiped his hands again, where they were sticky. Feeling them slip and skid on the smooth butt of his gun.

His gun that was still pointed down at the camp, but now shaking. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to protect Pete even if he had to.

He felt as if his arms were weak. As if the kid’s breath was still hot between his fingers.

As if the eyes were still staring at him, into his very soul, accusing, questioning, pleading.

He squeezed his own eyes closed, trying to rid himself of the memory.

When he opened them again a shadow that had to be Pete was heading back up the side of the trees. He could tell, after so many months of watching, Pete’s body shape, his way of moving.

Just like he knew Pete’s smell, the softness of his curly hair.

The gentle look in his eyes.

He could feel the bile rising in his throat, and took a deep, shuddering breath, blinking away the moisture that threatened his vision.

It had been close. He’d had no choice. It had been that kid, or Pete.

And it had been his decision to make.

An easy decision.

 

“All right?”

Pete’s hand was heavy on his shoulder. Giving a squeeze through the sodden cotton of his coat and tunic.

He tried to speak. Somehow the words wouldn’t come. So he just nodded. Still scanning the hillside. Still drawn to the tree.

Pete would have walked past without knowing there was a kid there, lying out in the rain, alone. Dead.

“Let’s go, then. All quiet there. Reckon they marched enough to tire ‘emselves out, after getting fat in camp all winter.”

He pulled his bag onto his shoulder, kept his gun in his hand as they turned to go.

His teeth chattered, and he wanted to blame it on the rain. Not the memories.

He was glad the dark hid him from Pete.

He was a soldier. A grown man. He’d killed other men before, more than once. The heat of battle, the chaos, the acrid smoke from the guns in his throat and eyes as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, fighting and killing and doing his goddamn job.

But he’d never looked into the eyes of a boy before, as the blood drained from his body. Never stared at death like that. Not even giving the kid a chance to say a last word or prayer.

It hadn’t felt the same as shooting some faceless uniform, in the heat of the battle.

It hadn’t felt like he’d killed the enemy tonight.

It felt like he’d stolen away a young kid’s life.

 

They reached their horses, mounting up in silence, moving out, always keeping watch behind them.

Finally stopping when they were far enough away, next to a small woodland, to give them some cover.

They worked around each other in the darkness, familiarity and practice making it easy to navigate.

He waited for Pete to realise. Waited for him to finally realise that he’d done something terrible. Waited for him to realise and react and tell him he’d been wrong and he could’ve done a thousand other things that wouldn’t have left a boy dead, alone in the woodland in the dark.

But Pete just carried on as normal.

Soon their shelter was constructed, keeping the worst of the heavy rain off their bedrolls, and they sank down into the scant shelter, settled onto the soft ground.

Pete fussed with the blankets for a second, covering them both, before a hand landed on Gil’s hip. Another movement brought Pete closer to him, pressed against him, a warm stripe down his back.

He stared into the darkness. Felt the weight of Pete’s arm increasing as he slipped into sleep.

Just like the weight of the kid had slid into his arms as death had claimed him.

He slid his fingertips over the back of Pete’s hand. It was warm. Alive.

And Gil didn’t deserve him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep didn’t come easy, although he dropped off a few times, always jumping awake as shadowy figures stalked his dreams.

He got up at first light, rolling a quirley and smoking it, standing and looking down into the valley where a low mist was creeping and swirling over the land. Instinctively looking for movement, for anything out of the ordinary.

“You’re up early,” Pete’s sleepy voice came from behind him. “Why ain’t you lit a fire? Movement?”

He jumped slightly, then glanced over his shoulder to see Pete sitting up, blanket still around his shoulders, hand rubbing over his stubbled face.

He shook his head, glancing back out to watch the land. He shifted position, and felt a slight crunch under his foot.

He lifted his boot.

Delicate new shoots, topped with a white flower, just bursting out of bud. Crushed under his weight. Broken on the ground.

 

“Get some wood, then,” Pete was saying, cheerfully, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I’ll do breakfast.”

Gil moved automatically, gathering an armful of twigs and fallen branches. Everything was too wet, but they would manage.

His hand flared in pain as he tugged firewood free from the undergrowth and he glanced down at it, realising for the first time his palm was slit open, the wound bleeding sluggishly from his recent activity.

He squeezed his fist closed. Could remember the knife sliding through his clenched fist, as steel hit bone.

It hadn’t hurt, then.

He flexed his hand. His fingers still worked. He’d still be able to pull a trigger. That was all that mattered.

He was just a small piece in this machine of war. All that mattered to anyone else was that he could still do his job. That he could still kill. 

All that mattered to him was that he could still protect the one man he cared about.

He’d realised long ago that his idealistic dream of protecting his home and family was all just a fantasy, sold to him by men cleverer than he was. Men who didn’t care who lived or died, if it protected their wealth and way of life.

War had ripped all that away from him. And given him something else, instead.

He stood and moved, the wood safe under his arm. His fist clenched shut.

 

Pete was busy with the food when he got back, using his knife to shave off dried meat into a pan with some beans and tinned tomatoes.

Gil watched, his mouth going dry.

The silvery blade was working through the tough meat. Deft, sure.

He could feel it, the sudden give as the knife burst through skin. The slide of the blade through meat. Flesh. Living, breathing, human flesh.

“Come on then,” Pete began, looking up at him, a gentle sleepy smile on his face, obviously wondering why the fire wasn’t being lit.

It was as if the world had frozen in place. Just sweet birdsong and the drip of rain through the foliage, steady, like the tick of a clock counting away the seconds.

“What happened?” Pete’s expression had changed to one of shock, and he moved, unfolding himself from the ground, reaching out, food forgotten, knife dropped into the dead leaves.

Gil stared, at first. Then looked down, because Pete’s gaze was fixed on his body.

His uniform was dark with blood. Faded and diluted around the edges. Dark in the middle, soaked deep into the grey cotton.

He dropped the wood, suddenly overwhelmed.

The sight, the smell.

The look on Pete’s face.

The memory of the warm wet blood spraying over his face as the kid shuddered out his final breath.

He stumbled to a nearby tree, bending, retching. Dry heaving over and over until his eyes were streaming and stinging and his nose was running, his empty stomach protesting as his mouth filled with saliva and the taste of bile.

Pete’s hands were gentle on him, stroking his back, his hair, fingers tenderly rubbing the back of his neck and holding his shoulder. Murmured words, meaningless, soft, gentle.

He wanted to say he didn’t deserve that. Didn’t deserve that sort of tenderness or care. But all he could do was gasp for breath and wipe his sleeve across his face.

“What happened?” Pete was asking. “Did something happen last night? Talk to me.”

He straightened up. His hands shaking. His legs shaking. And the words still wouldn’t come.

Pete took his arm, led him back to their bedrolls. Pushed him to sit while he coaxed the wet timber to burn, settling the coffee pot in the flames.

Routine. Familiar actions. Just like every other morning.

The breaths in Gil’s chest felt as if they moved more easily. The rushing in his ears felt as if it were quieting.

He rubbed his thumb hard into his palm, welcoming the pain. That was what he deserved, not Pete’s care.

He focussed on it.

When everything was set on the small fire, Pete sat next to him. A moment later a blanket was tucked over his shoulders. A canteen pushed into his hands.

“What happened?” Softer now, less urgent.

He took a sip from the canteen, and stared into the flames.

“Was…someone saw you.”

Pete just nodded.

“I…he was…” And still the words weren’t there. Because he didn’t know how to explain it. He’d done his job. That was what mattered. That was what would matter to Pete. So why did it feel so different. Why did he worry Pete would think he’d done wrong.

Why did he imagine his wife, knowing he’d killed a kid. Why did he imagine having to try to explain himself to his girls, their innocent faces looking up at him, all of them thinking he was a monster.

“You’re a soldier.” There was no judgement in Pete’s tone. No blame. No anger, or scorn.

But he knew Pete was waiting for more. As the silence stretched and the fire crackled and the pot began to gently steam, he knew he owed him more, too. The trust between them was the most important thing.

“It was just a kid,” he said. The words barely audible. “He was just a scared kid.”

Pete turned to look at him, then.

He couldn’t look back.

“A kid? A kid in a uniform, though? A kid with a gun?” Pete pushed.

He nodded, took another drink and put the canteen aside. They’d need more water soon. 

“Then what else could you do?” Pete’s voice had softened. “This is war,” he added, quietly.

And he wanted to shout, to rage, to explain that it was wrong, that it shouldn’t be, that he should never have taken that life. But he couldn’t. Because he knew, deep down, he’d choose Pete over that kid again, if he had to.

He pressed his thumb hard into his palm. Felt the burst of pain and the slickness of fresh blood.

“Hey…Hey!” Pete leant across him and grabbed his wrist. “You didn’t say you was hurt.”

“I…” He gave up trying to protest as Pete pulled his arm, twisting his hand around.

“He did this?” Pete asked.

Gil shook his head.

Pete frowned. “You didn’t…”

“Hand slipped. It…I…” He didn’t want to share the details. Wished he couldn’t remember himself. The feel of the knife, grating on bone. The hot blood spilling over him.

Pete moved, squatting in front of him, pouring a little water over his hand.

“You don’t have to…” he began.

Pete looked him in the eye. “Let me.”

The silence stretched, but eventually he gave a small nod.

Pete continued his work, using gentle fingertips to wash away the blood. Tipping his palm to the light. Gently parting the edges of the wound, making his fingers twitch with the stinging pain.

Then tugged the bandana from around his own neck, carefully wrapping Gil’s hand in it. Touch gentle. Fingers lingering, stroking down Gil’s own.

“Still works right?”

Gil looked into his eyes. “I can still pull a trigger,” he answered, flatly.

Pete gave a small shake of his head, a sad look in his eyes. “That ain’t…what I meant.”

“It’s what matters.”

Pete sighed, then turned to where the coffee pot was steaming.

 

They discussed what Pete had seen, Gil making notes in his book, letters awkward, as he held the stub of his pencil in his bandaged hand.

Back to work. Back to their normality.

Then they saddled up, moving on. Always moving on.

 

“Gonna be okay?” Pete asked, as they rode, sticking to tree lines, moving through valleys, having checked for any signs of nearby movement.

The rain had stopped, and on the few animal tracks that existed the dust had turned to thick mud. The sort that would pull at your shoes, drag you down. Swallow you up.

They’d both seen that, in battle. Ground so churned up by mud and blood and bodies that you fought nature more than the enemy, and wondered how anyone could ever think God was on your side.

“Yeah,” he answered. He felt better already. Putting in the miles between them and the kid.

“It ain’t…the first time you’ve…”

“No,” Gil answered. “It ain’t.”

He didn’t even remember the first. He’d thought he would. But now…he remembered the motions. Lining up the sights, the figure of a man, chest in line with the sight post. Finger on the trigger, taking up the slack. The kick back. The space in front of his gun empty. So do it again. The next, and the next, and the next. Until they were on you, and it was bayonets and swords and anything else you could lay your hands on. Never time to see anything more than the uniform. Never looking at faces.

It didn’t make him feel anything, not now. 

He hadn’t been prepared for the night before. The look in the kid’s eyes. The feel of his last breath, the way he could truly feel the moment of death.

He felt like he owed Pete more explanation. He didn’t want Pete to lose faith in his ability. Didn’t want Pete worrying that he couldn’t watch his back anymore.

“Were the first…like that. I…’s always been in battle. Or with a gun. Not…like that.”

Pete just nodded, as if he understood.

Maybe he did.

“Reckon no one can understand, how it is in war, not ’til they’ve done it themselves.”

They didn’t talk about this. Ever. They didn’t need to. They lived it.

Gil stayed silent.

“I…thought it’d be okay. I ain’t never shied away from a fight.” Pete continued, and he sensed him glancing over, as if gauging his reaction. “But I weren’t ready for it, not really.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know how to react. Felt like he should say something more. Something to show he did appreciate Pete sharing that with him. “Weren’t ready for…?”

They plodded onward. He guessed Pete was trying to find the right words. He understood that.

“Living like this. Every moment, waitin’. Back when I was in camps, when you could…feel it in the air, before a battle. Didn’t know it would be like that. Before…I’d seen gunfights, fistfights. Over before they began, almost.”

Gil flexed his hand. His reins were held loose. Eyes raking the horizon, twisting to look back the way they’d come. But he didn’t mind it the feeling, the tension, not really.

“Ain’t so bad, is it? Just waiting.” 

Pete shook his head, sighing. “It’s hard. Just being ready every moment. Tiring. Don’t it make you tired?”

He thought back. Hiding behind his Ma’s skirts. Hiding in corners. Hiding behind the ragged curtain that separated their small sleeping space from the rest of the house. He’d spent his childhood being ready. Ready for anger, for shouting. For violence. Never knowing if he’d get a hug from his father or a beating.

Life had been lived on a knife edge. Love or rage, never knowing what would flip the man from one to the other.

War was easy. You knew where you stood in war.

“No.”

He knew Pete was waiting for more, but this time he didn’t oblige.

Some things never needed to be shared.

 

Their next stop was the last before turning back and delivering their information to their own commanders.

As always, there was a trade off between being well hidden and being able to see enough of their surroundings to stay safe.

They could guess their rough target for tonight. They knew the land. Knew how fast an army could march.

Gil wished he didn’t know. He wished his only concerns where how far a steer could travel in a day, how fast you could push man and beef over the prairie.

How you got a crying baby asleep in your arms. Or built your family a life, in the harsh plains.

He sat and worked on his gun once they’d made their small, sparse, camp. Methodically cleaning and re-greasing every part of the weapon.

Pete sat next to him, studying the maps. Their arms sometimes brushing. Sometimes settling, slightly pressed together. Familiar warmth and solidity.

They ate before it got dark, and drank strong bitter coffee, thick with grounds.

 

Gil felt Pete’s hand slip onto his lower back as the darkness crept in around them.

“You going to be okay?”

He nodded.

“I…need to know. After last night.”

He looked into the dying embers of their fire, half doused out with the last of the coffee, a slight lingering smell of burning grounds.

“I can do my job.”

The hand moved further around him, settling just above his hip, and gave a slight squeeze, pulling him closer to the warmth of Pete’s body.

“Ain’t going to be much cover. You’ll have to come in close.”

He knew why Pete was asking, and didn’t resent it.

“I’ll be all right,” he reassured. “I will.”

Pete just nodded.

 

There was a knot in his stomach as they dismounted in the darkness.

The knife felt heavy in his pocket.

He’d cleaned it, removing all the congealed blood from the mechanism and carefully folding out each tool on it. Given the steel an oil. It had always been a lifeline to him. Good for preparing meat, for fixing things, for digging mud and stones from his horse’s hooves.

And it looked as if nothing had happened. No way to know it had recently claimed a life, instead.

The slice through his hand and the blood in his uniform told a different story.

He glanced around.

Pete had been right, no trees here. Nowhere for them to hide. Somehow he preferred it that way. 

Nowhere for anyone else to hide either.

 

They kept low, moved carefully, knowing they’d be invisible against the dark hillside. Then sat, huddled together, watching as shadowy figures moved around, fires died down, and the camp seemed to slowly fall into a peaceful slumber.

At some point, Pete’s hand found Gil’s. Cold fingers linking together, holding tight. Anchoring them, offering the smallest bit of warmth on the cold prairie.

They’d each picked out the guard posts, watched the rhythm and movements of men who either stood on sentry duty or walked the edge of the camp. They didn’t discuss it. They both knew what to do.

Finally, in the early hours of the morning, they stretched out stiff limbs, rubbed feeling back into cold fingers, and with one last check of weapons, began moving.

The night was dark, the cloud still thick. They crept down the slope, and for a moment Gil wondered what it would be like, to just keep walking. To give up. Into the camp, into the ranks of the enemy. To give up his weapons, to sit out the rest of the war in a prison camp.

But he knew he wouldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Being stuck inside some camp somewhere would be a living nightmare.

The one thing that had always kept him going through life, was the knowledge he could get up and leave, anytime.

Then his fingers traced over the brass buttons of his tunic. Except now he knew he was as much a prisoner of his own side as he would be of the enemy. Be taken prisoner, maybe die. Desert and face the firing squad. That was the choice.

His fingers tightened on his gun. Knowing he could still choose to leave one other way. Permanently.

But he wouldn’t, not while Pete was by his side.

He reached out, touched Pete’s sleeve, fingers trailing over cheap fabric.

Pete stopped. “What?” The word was barely formed. The slightest breath of noise.

He slid his fingers up Pete’s arm, trailing over his collar, over his cheek. Stubble rough, coarse under his touch.

He didn’t have the words, but he awkwardly leant in, noses hitting, then foreheads resting together, warm breath mingling.

He squeezed the back of Pete’s neck. Trying to get his message across. Trying to explain that he’d be there, he’d do anything, as long as they were together. Because he was certain he couldn’t get through the war alone.

“I can do it. I’d do anything, for you.”

Pete’s touch was gentle. Hands on his waist, holding him. Steadying him.

“We’ll be all right,” Pete whispered back, lips tracing against the skin by his ear.

And he nodded, wanting it to be true.

 

As they stepped apart one of Pete’s hands lingered, sliding around his waist, finally falling away in the darkness.

Gil hefted the weight of his gun. The solid wood and metal. Felt the spare ammo heavy on his back.

 

He would kill again. He knew he would.

But he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d ever win, no matter which side claimed victory.

He’d fought a war he didn’t want to fight, killed men he didn’t want to kill.

Fallen in love with a person he couldn’t have.

And when the war was over, he’d go back to his wife, and his kids, and he’d lose that one thing - the one man - who he’d truly been fighting for.

He walked alone into the darkness.


End file.
